


Five People Who Expressed Concerns About Bond’s Drinking Habits

by INMH



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Ambiguous Relationships, Angst, Complicated Relationships, Depression, Drama, F/M, Failed Relationships, Friendship, He wants to give everyone a ride but he needs to get his shit together first, Hurt/Comfort, James is the fandom bicycle, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Past Relationship(s), Post-SPECTRE, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to past canonical character deaths, Romance, Self-Esteem Issues, Spoilers, Strong Language, references to past suicide attempts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 17:22:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5594611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/INMH/pseuds/INMH
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Including some who try, and some who succeed in doing something about it. Bond/Madeleine, Bond/Mallory, Hinted Bond/Eve, Hinted Bond/Q, Past Bond/Vesper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five People Who Expressed Concerns About Bond’s Drinking Habits

**Author's Note:**

> Mind those tags, now, because this gets a bit dark at a couple of points.

[-0-]

 

If the world were some cheap Hollywood movie, made to cater to peoples’ emotions and make money for some studio, this would be the part where he cleans up his act, gets his shit together, and drags himself out of the hole he’s been in since he watched her (can’t say the name, can’t even think it) virtually commit suicide in front of him.

He’s had his chance for revenge, has had his chance to stop her “boyfriend” from duping some other government entity from falling into the same plot. He should be satisfied- sad, but satisfied. It was a short-lived affair. He barely knew her (that is darkly, hilariously evident). She betrayed him. He should be done. He should be over it.

But he’s not. And he doesn’t get better.

He copes precisely the way he always has, from the moment he first realized how well it worked: Drinking too much and fucking every attractive looking person of majority that gives consent.

The sex is hit-and-miss, because as of yet the best and most memorable of his sexual encounters were with _her_ and anything that comes even close ends up having the exact opposite effect to his _forgetforgetforgetforget_ efforts.

Alcohol, on the other hand-

 

[-1-]

 

“Bloody hell, Bond.”

He’s heard those exact words in that exact order out of M’s mouth enough times, directed at him for an entire variety of reasons, that their appearance at the moment isn’t quite enough to startle or concern him, especially.

He assumes it’s something to do with the file she has open, that she’s currently reading, that she didn’t even look up from when she spoke. Alright, so perhaps there is some vague _confusion_ , at the moment- because his last assignment went off without a hitch, and he wasn’t required to bend any rules, not _really_ , anyway-

M flips the folder around, and then slaps (never sets or slams, but _slaps_ ) it down in front of him. Her succinct instructions are only, “Read it.”

And so, he reads it.

Or tries.

It’s not difficult to figure out that this is the results from his latest encounter with medical; the date and general lingo on the paper give that much away. But the page is filled with numbers that are otherwise completely indecipherable to him. He’s not a doctor, he hasn’t the faintest idea what the percentages and decimals mean; his only guess is that they’re not good, given M’s reaction to them. He’s about to relay this ignorance to M when he catches sight of the scribbled notes, a translation of those unreadable numbers, at the very bottom of the page in eye-damagingly small type:

_Agent shows sign of regular alcohol consumption exceeding that which one would consider appropriate for his occupation. Long term damage has yet to be proven. It is recommended that the agent in question be referred to a psychiatric professional to determine the severity of his dependence on alcohol, and that he rigorously maintains his scheduled visits with physicians in the coming year to ensure that no lasting damage has occurred._

 

He barely- just, _just_ barely- resists the urge to groan.

This is a lecture he’s gotten before, ad nauseam. ‘You drink too much’, from his first girlfriend at university. ‘Lay off the spirits, Bond’ from his immediate superiors in the Navy. ‘Slow down there, brother, at this rate you’ll have more alcohol than blood in your veins,’ from Felix during an interlude during his previous assignment. He pauses, calculates the likelihood of whether or not Felix might have made some off-hand, well-intentioned remark to M or anyone else in MI6. Maybe he should ask around.

“Bond.” M’s voice cuts his musings to ribbons. “Explain. Now.”

He takes a deep breath. “Well, this person seems to think I have an alcohol problem.”

“Don’t be flip with me.”

“What else would you like me to say?”

“I’d like your assessment on whether or not _his_ assessment is accurate or not.”

Her eyes are steel. He can no more lie to her about this than he could lie to his own mother when he stole cookies before dinner. But his pride, his damnable pride, stops him from actually offering up an answer. After maybe three or four minutes of silence, she gives a curt nod and says, “I’ll take that as a ‘no contest’.”

“If you like.”

“Of course, this now requires me to warn you, 007, that as a 00 agent, you are expected to keep yourself in good physical condition. I’ve seen people go into liver-failure before, and to do so in the middle of an assignment would be terribly distracting for you.” Her eyes narrow. “Which is why I expect you to comply with the physician’s instructions. To the letter, Bond.”

It’s moments like this when he feels like pushing his luck, pushing her buttons; like perhaps instead of saying “Yes ma’am” he should say “Yes _Mrs. Mansfield_ ” as he’s leaving and see if she’s got a retort for _that_ (except that she will, she always does, and he suspects it will come in the form of that hideous porcelain monstrosity of hers flying across the room and bashing him in the head).

Because even if M is his boss, and even if it’s a boundary that usually exists in that capacity, there are times when he thinks that maybe she crosses the line from ‘boss’ to ‘mother’- and thank you, but he’s already had a mother, and she’s dead now. He can handle being lectured by his boss, that’s her job- mothering him is not.

But evidently, his previous suspicion that M might be somewhat telepathic seems to ring false, because she does precisely that, in her own way.

“Is this something to do with Vesper Lynd?”

He’s well aware of his body-language, aware of every little signal he gives off, and so he knows that the slight tensing of his shoulders before sliding into a relaxed state again is all the answer she needs. Still, he says, “I’ve settled that.”

M arches a silver eyebrow in response. “Have you?”

“I believe you were present.”

“That isn’t what I’m referring to, and you know it.”

_What do you want me to say? That I weep endlessly into my pillow at night at my dear, lost love? That I scream her name to the heavens when I’ve had a few too many? Christ, M, what do you want me to **say**?_

M’s gaze doesn’t waver, but once again, she eventually takes his silence as an indicator that they are indeed on the same page, even if he refuses to say it out loud.

“You’ll report to medical regularly. And you will, at the very least, make an _effort_ with the therapist.” And then, just barely noticeable, and only to those who’ve had the pleasure of knowing her as long as he has, M’s gaze and tone soften ever so slightly. “That’s an order, Bond.”

Of course it is: an order to open his heart and soul up to a stranger because he, evidently, has an alcohol problem.

Christ, it may just be easier to take up some other, less physically-obvious vice for the time-being.

 

[-1½-]

 

Some years later, when Silva reads off his pitiful examination results, he assumes that M held back on revealing the parts regarding ‘substance abuse’ whilst in Mallory’s presence, much for the same reason that she held everything else back: She needed the job done, and thought James might be the best chance for that.

It isn’t until they face an hours-long ride up into the backwoods of Scotland that he dares to bring it up.

“You spent a month underground,” She says. “And I doubt you expected to return to the field anytime soon. I can hardly have expected you to be in good shape.”

He can’t quite bring himself to ask her why she sent him into the field anyway. He hopes his own suspicions are correct.

They have to be, or he’s not that different from Silva.

“James.”

It’s not often she calls him by his first name, and he pauses in his musings, glancing away from the road towards her.

“When this is done, you’ll need to have another evaluation. Don’t think for a second that I’ll hesitate to send you to rehab.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Obviously, this never comes to pass.

 

[-2-]

 

It’s a week after the fallout from Skyfall that Eve visits him at his hotel room.

He’s still looking for a new flat. Recent events have eaten up quite a bit of his time. Testimony after testimony after testimony about what happened at Skyfall, every bloody detail down to the precise color of each and every henchman’s socks, he tells Mallory in less than tactful terms that he’s going to blow something else up if he has to tell this damn story again.

Mallory takes the hint and politely requests that all further inquiries be put on hold for the time being. This, incidentally, is what eliminates the last bit of grudge from the respect he’s managed to develop for the man.

Otherwise, though, he’s on mandatory, temporary leave to recuperate from his injuries, “mental and physical”.

He never completely gave up drinking after his initial confrontation with M- of course not, that would be madness- but he did manage to curtail it enough to bring himself to a state of health that had her and the doctors satisfied.

Therapy, that didn’t end up working out so well; the second therapist M had shoved him with had ended up quitting after their third session. According to a darkly amused 004, “the poor bastard’s in his early thirties and he’s talking retirement, what did you _do_ , Bond?”

He was honest, that’s what he was.

It’s not his bloody fault if MI6 can’t employ therapists that can handle intimate descriptions of a dead body that’s been put through a wood-chipper by some lunatic eco-terrorist. And that idiot was the one who had asked what the most gruesome experience he’d had with the job had been. He should have damn-well known not to underestimate the sort of things MI6 agents had to witness out on the field.

 _Welcome to the dark side of government work,_ he thought after 004’s story, _if you think what I’ve seen is bad, let’s hope you never have to interview 002 about the Alberta incident._

The stint in Turkey following the Take the Bloody Shot incident took whatever previous issues he’d had with alcohol and brought them back with the force of a bullet-train plowing through tissue-paper. He didn’t even try to lie to himself about it- he had a fucking alcohol problem, and oh _boy_ was it a bad one. Maybe he had a handle on it a long time ago, but he sure as hell doesn’t now.

And so, when Eve comes to visit about a week into his leave, she gets treated to the sight of about fourteen empty bottles of alcohol in the trash, on the side-table, on the table near the window too. He’s barely left the room since he got it, and he’s turned down room-service at every opportunity. The number would have been closer to thirty if he hadn’t finally managed to take some of the trash out himself the night before.

It takes her barely a few seconds to realize what she’s looking at. “Evening, Bond. I was just coming to…” He can practically see her counting.

As it is, he can glean what she’s thinking; she’s not the first woman he’s known to walk into his quarters unexpectedly and see a few too many alcohol bottles lying about, and they’ve all had, for the most part, the same reaction.

He’s spent a good, long while cultivating his image: A perpetual flirt with rebellious tendencies and impenetrable armor. He’s the man who makes dry remarks under heavy fire, with the certainty of death licking at his heels on most given days. He’s the bastard who can get called any number of names, receive any amount of insults that might leave a lesser person in tears, and be perfectly fine. He doesn’t feel pain. He doesn’t feel shame. And never remorse- of course not.

Cold, cruel, efficient, and a blunt instrument of Her Majesty’s Government with a few charms up his sleeve. Almost inhuman, in most respects.

That is how people see him. And while M was one of the few who knew better, most do not, until they walk into a room with alcohol bottles strewn all over the floor and tables and start to wonder, with a terrible sense of unease, if maybe they’ve been mistaken about the level of abuse he’s capable of taking. That maybe he’s not quite the invulnerable machine they’ve previously assumed him to be.

And in his experience, that tends to frighten people.

“This is a bit much, James.”

 _James_. Nobody calls him James, except when they’re trying to be Terribly Serious with him. It evokes a sense of dread in him that he’s about to have _this_ conversation with Eve, because up until now their relationship has been one of good humor, mutual respect, and several near-misses romantically.

This is why he keeps up that image: Because the conversation after it starts to crumble is always, _always_ , bloody fucking difficult to have.

Eve takes a deep breath. “Look,” She says, voice low and far too serious for what he’s come to expect from her personality, “I know you and M- I know you really respected-”

“It’s not that.” He cuts in, not wanting to be actually rude, never to her, but that wound is still quite open and festering, and he feels the alarm a man feels when a doctor is about to poke at something he _knows_ is going to hurt like hell.

“Is it because of… I mean, the train…?” Eve never flinches, never looks unsure of herself- until now, where the barest squirm tells him that she is not referring to their late employer’s untimely demise, but rather the events which preceded it (which, incidentally, involve a bullet fired from her own gun).

“No,” He says quickly, looks down, looks back up, looks back down again. “Nothing to do with that, either.”

He’s awkward because he respects her, respects her prowess and her professionalism and her grit, and he really, genuinely doesn’t want her to feel like she’s done something horrible to him, because really, she hasn’t. She, much like he, was simply following orders. She’s compassionate. She wants to help.

But damn him, he just can’t take it.

“It’s a rough patch. I’ll be fine.” That’s all the ground he can afford to give.

She doesn’t look like she believes it at all, but unlike some previous persons in a similar situation, she also knows when to pick her battles.

“Alright then.” She pauses. “Let me know if it doesn’t.”

That’s all she needs to say. She kisses him on the cheek and goes on her way.

 

[-2½-]

 

When he invites Eve over to his flat a few months later, he makes sure that any sign of alcohol is removed from sight, even sprays some air freshener to make sure she can’t smell it.

He knows his vices, knows they’re getting worse rather than better (because while recent events didn’t cause his problems they also damn well didn’t help them either) and there’s nothing he can do about it, not right now, not when M has left him a task to be completed, and so the least he can do is provide Eve with some peace of mind so that she doesn’t worry over him.

And she seems to notice, seems to be hesitantly satisfied that there’s only one glass on the table and that the place does not seem to belong to someone who is actively abusing alcohol. The drink he offers her is casual, polite, the only mention of alcohol there is while she’s there. Admittedly, the video from M and his recent foray in Mexico City go a long way in distracting her from anything else.

He asks for her help, and she teases, “And what makes you think you can trust me?”

“Instinct.” He responds, and they’re quite close, but it doesn’t come to anything- tonight. He watches her departure through the window, meditating on the encounter.

 _“Instinct”- that’s cute. Your instincts told you to trust **her** too,_ a nasty little voice in his mind whispers. _Remember how that ended?_

He doubts his appointment with medical tomorrow has anything to do with actual medical testing, and so he goes ahead and drinks until that fucking voice finally goes away.

 

[-3-]

 

Then he meets Madeleine, and for about three beautiful months, everything is _good._

He feels good. He _is_ good, in just about every way.

His drinking is tempered. His mood is stable. He actually enjoys things, savors them, and it is because of _her_.

So of course- of _course-_ it doesn’t last.

It doesn’t take long for certain memories to start bubbling up, for that sadistic little voice in the back of his mind to whisper, _Goodness, remember when **she** wore a dress like that? _ Or while they take a holiday in the Bahamas, _Better be careful, stay close to her while she’s swimming, wouldn’t want to watch someone **else** drown, right?_ Or when she trots off to make a phone-call back to Austria, _Maybe you should make sure she’s not heading off to meet Blofeld, remember the last time you let a woman you loved out of your sight with the idea she’d be **right back, dear?**_

It’s too much.

It brings too much back.

He hasn’t had a great deal of _good_ in his life, before or after- after _her_ \- and so every good moment he shares with Madeleine, every smile, every kiss, every night in bed, it all brings him back to the one time in his life when he was really, truly happy before her, with a woman with darker hair and eyes that _burned_ when they looked at him.

Madeleine has stripped his armor away. But this time he’s raw, everything _hurts_ , and he just can’t fucking handle it.

And so, he reverts to his tried-and-true coping mechanism:

The only alcohol he touched in those good three months was a glass of wine with dinner. He was distracted by her, by his happiness, he didn’t need to cope. Didn’t need to block out that little voice in his head that insists on ruining him.

_Ah, yes, run back to the alcohol. You’re a killer and a failure as a human being, she’ll see that soon enough. Maybe it won’t hurt as much if you’re trashed._

_Shut up,_ he thinks. **_Shut up._**

He makes a sincere effort to keep it hidden, at first. He uses mouthwash compulsively so she won’t notice the taste when she kisses him, quickly disposes of bottles and cans before she can see them. He goes right on pretending that he feels perfectly and completely fine, nothing to worry about.

But it doesn’t work. Even after three months of happiness he finds that once it’s gone, he can’t quite capture it again. That familiar haze of ‘oh just fuck it’ sets in, and he smiles less frequently, becomes less concerned with whether or not she knows, because really, what’s the point? He can’t pretend forever, now can he?

And Madeleine, she’s smart, she catches onto the severity of the problem faster than he thought she would. Of course, he did tell her at the clinic that he drinks too much, and she’s undoubtedly drawn her own conclusions about what being a killer for your government will do to your psyche over time.

At first, bless her, she tries to be gentle. She approaches him with the caution of someone who’s likely had to deal with alcoholics before, has had to tip-toe carefully around the issue at hand so as not to send them running. “You’ve been drinking more,” She says, almost casually. “Is everything alright?”

There’s no really tactful way to say ‘You remind me of my dead girlfriend, who I also left MI6 for, who betrayed me. I constantly meditate on what a horrible creature I am and how I actually don’t deserve to be around you, since you are considerably less fucked up than I am and will undoubtedly taint you with my misery. And apparently drinking myself into a coma is the only way to make any of this hurt a bit less.’

And so he simply says, “Yes, I’m fine.”

To her credit, Madeleine goes quite a while before she starts to lose patience. She sits him down, tries to talk to him calmly, rationally, mentions that he seems distant, that he always smells of alcohol now, that he slipped on the stairs the other day and now she’s really, truly getting concerned.

Had she gone on in this fashion, maybe he might have cracked eventually.

What immensely does not help is that Madeleine is schooled in both psychology and physiology, and that she goes into Doctor Mode and lists the numerous dangers of alcohol, physically, mentally, emotionally, sexually, and it strikes a nerve, because Christ alive, he’s not some damn schoolboy sitting in assembly with his classmates whilst being told that one cigarette will destroy your damn life.

And so he withdraws, insists he’s fine, becomes less adept at hiding his irritation with her prodding.

By some hellish chance, both of their reserves of patience dry up at roughly the same time and, much like what usually happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object, things explode.

“Why can’t you just _talk_ to me? Do you distrust me so much?” She throws a dishtowel down on the edge of the sink.

“I don’t trust you?” He snarls back. “You’re the one who apparently doesn’t trust me when I say that I’m _fine!_ ”

The hypocrisy burns in his mouth and he hates himself even more when she storms into the bedroom and slams the door.

“You’re being stubborn,” She bites, waving the vodka bottle in the air, her grip on the neck precarious. “Why can’t you just admit something’s wrong?”

“I’m not the one beating a dead horse, Madeleine! I’m _fine!_ ” He punches a brick wall on the street outside and breaks one of his knuckles.

He’s not okay, he’s not okay, and there’s no convincing her otherwise.

“Are you tired of me?” She’s weeping, and he suspects maybe she’s broken down and had a bit to drink herself, because she never cries. “Is that it? Are you tired of being with me? Do you feel like I’m holding you down?”

He deflates, rakes his fingers through his hair. “No,” he says, trying to stop his voice from breaking. “No, no, no, I’m not tired of you. I love you.”

“Then why won’t you talk to me? I don’t care what you say! There’s nothing too horrible, James, I swear, I’ll understand!”

And yes, maybe she can understand him in a lot of ways: Having blood on your hands, never truly feeling safe, knowing there are some parts of your life that you can never truly share with the people you meet and love.

But there are also plenty of things she doesn’t understand; for all White’s failings, he didn’t doubt for a second that if anyone had ever harmed Madeleine that White would have hunted them down and skinned them alive. She is not now nor has she ever been anyone’s ‘blunt instrument’, has always been her own person with her own dreams that she has been free to and succeeded in pursuing. However much difficulty she had in doing it, Madeleine had had a fulfilling life until he came along and ruined it.

Whether with her parents, or her coworkers, or her friends, she has always been someone special, someone beloved, someone that would be truly and honestly mourned and _missed_ if she died. Him? He was an example of “British fortitude” whose coworkers would sadly remember as yet another dead agent and move on in relatively short order, because really, there’s no point in getting attached to an agent who’s life-expectancy is painfully short from the get-go, and who keeps himself at a distance anyway.

She took her trauma and made herself a healer, someone who strove to help people and, in turn, learned how to heal herself in ways that actually _worked_. He, he kills people for a living to the point where he can almost convince himself that seeing brain-matter splattered across a wall is old hat, and then goes back to England and sits in his flat and drinks and drinks and drinks until his vision’s so bad that he can’t see the blood on his hands anymore.

Madeleine’s method to coping with grief is to pull the people around her closer.

His is to push them away.

And ultimately, this is what drives them apart.

She says she can’t stand it anymore. He agrees; he doesn’t expect her to put up with his misery one bit. He loves her too much to subject her to that. She gives him some psychobabble about not wanting to enable him, that he’s self-destructing and she’s done all she can, but if he’s not going to help himself, then she’s not going to stick around to watch the train crash.

And he agrees. She has done everything, has been supportive as she can, and really, Madeleine deserves fucking sainthood for trying to stick it out as long as she has, because he’s not sure he’d be able to handle himself either.

“I’m a cold-hearted bastard with too many issues. I don’t expect you to put up with that. You deserve better.”

There is so much sadness in her eyes.

But perhaps the other thing he sees is worse: The look that says, _I knew this was too good to be true, I knew you would disappoint me._

The look that says, _You failed me. I put my trust in you, and you failed me._

And in his mind, he thinks, _You’re not the first, dear._

Out loud, she says, “You are considerably more than just that, James. You are better than that. I’ve seen it. I wish you could see it too.”

Madeleine leaves, and honestly, he can’t fucking blame her.

 

[-3½-]

 

The day he comes back to MI6, he’s recovering from the most enduring hangover he’s ever had.

He’s expecting Mallory to give him both barrels, some sort of speech about reliability and responsibility and how he didn’t get to run off and quit every time he found a woman willing to tolerate him (a la his predecessor, he must have read the file, he _must_ know about _her_ by now) during which he expects to have the shakes and a constant urge to vomit because he’s forced himself not to drink any alcohol for the last seventy-two hours and he _still_ feels like hell.

Surprisingly, though, Mallory doesn’t rip into him the way he’s expecting. He doesn’t look _pleased,_ certainly, at what is now the second time this particular agent has left and returned to MI6 on a whim, head-over-heels in love.

“Next time, Bond,” Mallory says, “If you hand in your resignation, please have the decency to make sure that you’re _serious_ about it.”

But Mallory gives the green-light.

He passes the tests despite the fact that he feels like hell, despite the fact that his hands are shaking and his head feels like it’s full of rocks, and he’s re-admitted to MI6 again.

 

[-4-]

 

He thinks that maybe, just maybe, returning to routine might curb what is turning out to be a rather potent issue.

The re-admission process is over, and it isn’t terribly long before he breaks down and starts drinking again, desperate to silence the nasty voice that’s grown in volume in his head, and to stop his head from banging with such a terrible vengeance.

Missions are hell. There’s a constant, nagging _itch_ on his skin, his eyes, his _brain_ , and it’s so distracting that he nearly lets a target get away in Kenya.

Home is hell. He’s made a note never to impulsively bring anyone over, because he’s lost whatever ability he once had to manage the residual effects such issues had on his environment. Every now and then he has the wherewithal to take the rubbish out, and that’s about it.

Work is hell too. Unlike home or a mission, he can’t exactly bring vodka into work and drink as he pleases; it would inevitably get back to M, and he’d be out on his ass faster than you could say ‘sacked’. All he can ever do is hope the buzz lasts long enough that he can get through the first few hours without issue.

Of course, that can present its fair share of problems too.

“007? Are you listening?”

He wasn’t. He’s staring at the leg of Q’s desk and trying to breathe through the sudden wave of nausea that’s hit him.

Q’s eyebrows are raised, which could mean anything from ‘I am wholly unamused, Bond’ to ‘I am a mere second away from bashing you across the face with this wrench’. He rather hopes it’s the second, because at least then he might pass out long enough to get some damn rest. He hasn’t been sleeping very well either, and can’t tell if it’s the alcohol or the shit behind it that’s causing the problem.

On this particular morning, he is actually still quite drunk. Enough so that the unpleasant symptoms of withdrawal haven’t set in, but not quite enough that anyone’s really figured it out yet; or at least, no one’s said so out loud. He does have a bit of a reputation, after all. He’d avoiding Eve anyway, though.

“Yes, I’m listening.”

If Q is annoyed, he hides it well. Maybe he’s just used to him being a little shit at this point. “Right then. As I was saying, the tip of the umbrella is hollow, and can contain as many as eight rounds. Given that it takes so much time to reload it, however, I strongly recommend that you use those rounds wisely.”

He nods.

Bad choice, bad choice, his gag reflex triggers suddenly, and he chokes.

“Bond?”

_Shit._

He’s trying to squash the feeling down and failing.

 ** _Shit_**.

“Bond, are you al-”

He’s reached the toilet in ten strides, and starts gagging dangerously by the seventh.

He’s lucky enough that Q-branch isn’t overpopulated today, and that there are only a few technicians nearby to witness the legendary 007 tossing every metaphorical cookie he’s ever eaten.

It hits him that this may very well be his rock-bottom:

He wonders if maybe this is rock-bottom for him. Wonders if maybe having an alcohol-induced vomiting session on his knees in the tiny washroom in Q-branch is supposed to be some sort of divine indicator that no, really, you have sunk far enough, go no further, the next step from here is a flag-draped casket.

A man whose senses hadn’t been as finely honed as his over the years likely wouldn’t have noticed when Q- at least, he thinks it’s Q- quietly enters the room behind him and shuts the door. It doesn’t really compel him to get up any faster, even when the vomiting has stopped and his stomach has settled enough to justify movement.

“Had a bit too much, last night?”

Q’s voice is light, the implication he’s going for being that of course this is a one-time thing, of course he’s just gone and accidentally had a bit too much to drink, clearly not indicative of a serious condition at all, that he hasn’t been at all informed about his medical history in the slightest.

Why did it have to be Q? Why did it have to be Mr. “Need I Remind You That I Report Directly to M”? Eve doesn’t know the depths of his medical history, and Tanner only knows so much, and not necessarily enough to determine the cause behind this episode. At least, he thinks they don’t know that much; Tanner has access to quite a bit of information, and Eve is close enough to Q and M that maybe at some point she’s accidentally gotten a little more information on his issues than would otherwise be allowed.

“Bond?”

He looks up after a moment, not because he wants to, but because if he doesn’t want this turning into anything worse, he has to. He has to give at least the illusion that he doesn’t feel like curling up into a ball and withering away in a state of sickly misery.

Q looks terribly uncomfortable. It takes him a while to realize that, oh right, he is in really, _really_ bad shape, and he’s reasonably certain that Q’s never seen him like this before. Closest the boy’s ever come was when they first met following the ‘take the bloody shot’ incident, and by then, he’d already cleaned himself up enough to pass for _alive_ again.

“I’m fine,” He says, and it might have come out more reassuringly if his voice wasn’t so hoarse. “I’m fine, Q. Just a bad day, is all.”

Q’s eyes jump from his face to his clothes to his hands (which are ( _shit_ ) shaking) to his knees (which are also ( ** _shit_** ) shaking, and he knows the younger man probably isn’t buying it. The little bugger’s cockiness has been well-earned, however much it irritates the almighty hell out of him.

And also, he doesn’t know what Q may have heard from anyone else.

Especially M, who’s had his number from day one.

“I can give you a quick check-over, if you like,” Q offers as he moves slowly to the sink to rinse out his mouth. “Nothing too in-depth, just enough to maybe justify a day or two off-?”

“ _No._ ” That’s the last thing he wants. He had plenty of days off from the service with Madeleine, and all that served to do was let him think, meditate, obsess over the sorts of things that did not lend to his health, mental or physical. “It’s nothing.” He dries his hands and turns to look at Q again. “It’s just as you said: I had a bit too much to drink. I’ll be fine soon enough.”

Q doesn’t stop giving him that _look_ , the same he saw on his face when he was trying to decrypt Silva’s computer. But it’s tinged with the same sort of genuine concern that Eve had, the kind that stops him from responding with any aggression. Q only wants to help; he’s not a heartless bastard. He’s not cold and broken on the inside.

“You had a medical evaluation when you were cleared for active service again, right?”

“Right.” Q had, as it happened, been on holiday when he’d returned, and hadn’t presided over the exams as he might usually.

Q drums his fingers anxiously against his thigh. “Well, then.” And then he turns and leaves the washroom. He doesn’t elaborate further than that, but he doesn’t look especially satisfied or contented, and so now there’s a possibility of being sent on some strictly-observation mission on a maybe-but-probably-not terrorist in Sweden somewhere.

He follows Q back into the main room, and if any of the few technicians noticed his little episode, they’re smart enough to pretend that they didn’t. The Quartermaster returns to his computer and begins clicking away at something. On a normal day, he might have made some sort of remark, some sort of snippy “I’m still here, you little tit” remark, but today he keeps his mouth shut. He’s in neither the mood nor the position to press his luck, tentative as it is.

For a full five minutes, Q doesn’t say a single thing, and he begins to think the lad has legitimately forgotten that he’s still there- or, alternatively, testing to see how long he can do this before getting slapped across the back of the head. It wouldn’t be the first time it’s been necessary.

But finally, Q does deem him worthy of attention again- he leans forward and says, just-below room-level, “Bond, I’d like you to keep something in mind: Imbibing too much alcohol over an extended period of time, your body will become less adept at filtering it out. Which means your tolerance builds up, which means you’ll crave more. And I’ll shed delicacy for the sake of your well-being: You are not some twenty year-old binge-drinking at university anymore. The amount of alcohol you would need to take in to put you in your current condition-” Q eyes narrow here, like he’s expecting to be contradicted, “-is not conducive to you staying healthy, never mind continuing a career as a 00 agent. Scale it back a bit, or you’ll find yourself in quite a bit of trouble.”

Q stares at him after that, waiting for a response. He wonders if those five minutes of silence were spent working up the nerve to lecture him on such a sensitive subject. Q can’t be ignorant to the darker nature of his temper, to what sort of reaction he might have provoked by bringing up this particular subject.

“Are you done?” He asks.

Q heaves a sigh. “For now.” The warning is implied.

“Right, then. Do you have an assignment for me?”

“Not quite yet. I was a bit premature in telling M my findings. I need to do a bit more research before sending you off to Norway on a hunch. It’s bloody cold this time of the year.”

So, he wasn’t that far off. He wonders if this sudden hesitation on Q’s part- Q is a perfectionist, he almost never sends anything off to Mallory without being sure of it first- has less to do with being uncertain and more to do with what he’s just observed.

Whatever; it only matters if he tells Mallory. And if all that typing was indeed a message to their employer about any health concerns for a particular 00 agent, well, then he probably won’t have to worry about that until later.

 

[-4½-]

 

Incidentally, it ends up being Q he calls when he realizes something’s wrong later that night.

The vomiting, it’s gone on for hours. And it’s not a hangover, can’t be a hangover, he’s still plenty drunk. As someone who’s had more hangovers in his lifetime than he can count, he knows that no, this isn’t a hangover.

When he’s in hospital later on, when he’s conscious, when he’s just clear-headed enough to string two thoughts together, he wonders why he called Q- and, perhaps more pertinently, why the Quartermaster is currently tip-tapping away at his laptop from his perch next to the hospital bed.

“Ah, you’re awake,” Q says, without looking up. “Would you like me to give you a run-down of what happened, or would you rather wait for the doctor?”

He doesn’t say a word, and Q seems to take the appropriate hint.

As it is, it’s also Q who brings him back to his house when he gets out of the hospital.

Given the level of grief he causes the Quartermaster on a regular basis it’s an immediate red-flag that says ‘This is an instruction from M’.

Which isn’t surprising in the least. What _is_ surprising is that Mallory hasn’t resorted to doing what the previous M once threatened to do: Put him in one of those harness/leash monstrosities that mothers use to keep their children close by in the store.

As it is, he’s too tired, his brain too full of static to consider needling Q like he might normally, or even make an attempt to bring the younger man to bed (he’s considered it, in his better moments; the lad’s not hard on the eyes at all, even if he’s not quite his type). And save for poking him awake and reminding him to eat and drink, Q seems content to let him be.

He lasts like that for about a week.

_Hit rock-bottom, have we?_

He pulls the pillow over his head.

_How are those withdrawal pangs going?_

Terribly.

_Have to assume Q’s cracked and told Mallory, or Tanner, or Moneypenny, what’s really on with you._

It’s too fucking loud in his head and too fucking quiet outside of it.

_And here we go, off to fail someone else._

 

[-5-]

 

“This seat taken?”

He glances to his left, and then does a double-take. “Christ, I’ve never seen you without a suit.”

Mallory is standing next to him, blocking out about eighty percent of the rest of the pub, and no wonder it took a double-take to recognize his boss: The man’s hair isn’t quite as neatly combed, he’s wearing jeans and (what might be) a casual jacket. He is still Mallory, but a version of Mallory that, to the eye, appears far more relaxed than usual.

He looks good.

Really good.

_Stop right there, turn around, go back the way you came._

The concept of “off-limits” is relatively foreign to him, but one’s employer certainly falls under the heading. With his history of- shall we say- flexible interpretation of orders and perception of jurisdiction, a relationship with an employer whose very responsibility was to tug the leash around his neck whenever he got too rowdy would almost certainly end poorly.

Unfortunately, Mallory hits just about every item on the list for what he finds attractive in a man: Slightly older, the sort that didn’t suffer fools lightly, had a bit of steel under a calm demeanor, and- oh, right- wore suits, but looked damn good in street clothes.

“No, I suppose you haven’t.” He sits down, but makes no move to ask for a drink. “I must say, James,” The words roll off Mallory’s tongue with a quality to them that he can’t quite pin: Annoyance? Resignation? Cool neutrality? The use of his given name is, as usual, meant to imply seriousness, but there’s more to it then just that this time. “I’ve known you to do your fair bit of stupid and reckless things in the time I’ve known you, but I must say, going to a pub less than a week after being treated for alcohol poisoning is an entirely new level.”

And in but a few words, he confirms what was already suspected: Q brought him home to keep tabs on him and report to Mallory. Which likely explains how Mallory knew where to find him.

He has to admire the man’s persistence: M had made demands of him, but she’d never actually hounded him about it outside of work (of course, _he_ was the one with the habit of breaking into _her_ place, so tracking him down had never been necessary. Maybe he needs to pay Mallory’s flat a visit some time).

“Whatever you like to call it.” He responds, with equal coolness.

“Can I assume that this is why you and Dr. Swann parted ways?”

He twitches a little. Whatever approach he’d been expecting, it wasn’t this one. And he’s just deep enough in his cups at the moment to feel brave enough (or stupid enough) to say “Mind your fucking business.”

“I consider it my business when one of my agents seems to be intent on committing suicide.”

He snorts, but Mallory’s expression- not cold, not concerned, but a truly neutral shade of gray that betrays nothing about what he’s feeling below the surface- does not waver. “I’m not suicidal. If I was, I’d pick something a damn sight faster than this.” He wiggles his glass indicatively.

“It’s absolutely adorable that you think you’re the first person I’ve seen destroy themselves from the inside-out because they were too bloody stubborn to ask for help, but you’re not.” Mallory folds his hands on the bar. He still hasn’t ordered anything. Christ, can’t he at least _pretend_ that he’s not playing at a one-man intervention?

“And what if I do happen to destroy myself, then?” He poses. “Get a new blunt instrument to get the job done. That’s what most people tend to do when a weapon breaks.”

Mallory stares at him for a long moment, and really, he’s starting to feel a touch uncomfortable. He hasn’t known Mallory long enough to decipher the nuances in his expressions, his body language, his eyes. M he had a grasp on, but even then she was always a challenge. He doesn’t like not having at least a clue as to what’s going on in another person’s head. It makes him edgy, makes him feel that feeling he gets when he’s stalking around a place where an armed guard could come upon him at any moment. He feels _threatened._

“This may come as a shock to you, but I am not a complete bastard. I do have some basic ability to care for others without ulterior motivation.”

“Everyone has ulterior motivation.” He sounds so bitter, and he knows, but can’t bring himself to care. “And in any case, I haven’t exactly made your time here easy, so why not just come out and tell me why you decided to make my problems your own?”

Mallory sighs, and somehow it makes his temper spike a bit. The bastard is just so damn _reasonable_ and _calm_. He can’t stand that. It makes him feel like a child- though, admittedly, it’s not as though imbibing does much for his maturity.

“Because it’s ugly, being stuck in your own head when there’s not much good in there to meditate on. It’s not terribly pleasant to have to dull everything with alcohol and sex, not being able to sleep at night because of the nightmares. It’s horrid.”

Now he’s really uncomfortable, as uncomfortable as he does whenever someone gets too close to pulling something _real_ in him, and so he retaliates the only way he knows how: Needling back. “You sound like you speak from experience.”

“I do. I assume you have a basic understanding of my background.”

“I do.”

“And I assume you know that the IRA aren’t a friendly bunch?”

“I had an inkling.”

“I’ll let your considerable imagination fill in the blanks, then.” Mallory glances up at the television, eyes scanning the ribbon of news scrolling across the bottom of the screen. He needn’t have given him the moment to think; he knows damn well what sort of things Mallory’s implying.

“Is this the part where you tell me of the terrible path the experience sent you down, and how you managed to rise above it and become the bureaucratic wonder you are today?”

Christ, even _he_ realizes what a complete asshole he sounds like.

But Mallory’s lips twitch like he’s repressing a smirk- or maybe a frown, hell, he just can’t tell right now. “I’ll give you the abridged version: PTSD, and a stubborn-streak that made me too damn prideful to ask for help, even when I knew I needed it.”

“It’s like looking into a mirror,” He says, just short of a sneer, and in spite of that he thinks to himself, _dial back the hostility, you’ve reached your quota for shitty behavior for the day, good lord._ “And how did that end?”

“With me spending no less than seven hours sitting on my bed with my pistol in hand and deciding if I should just go on and get it over with.”

That- That, he wasn’t expecting. It seems Mallory’s going for the brutally-honest route in his attempts to make something stick.

He’s reached the height of his discomfort. There’s something terribly unsettling about Mallory, who is M now, letting him in on all of this. There’s something terribly strange about a superior being desperate enough to make a point that they’re willing to disclose this sort of personal ( _painful_ ) history. And so there’s a funny, unpleasant feeling in his gut when he says, “You may have noticed I don’t have my gun with me.”

“No, you’ve apparently chosen death by alcohol poisoning. Evidently you feel like flagellating yourself before you die. May want to talk to someone about that.”

Mallory says it so casually, so simply, that he finds himself chuckling, in spite of it all. “Tried that. May want to make sure the therapists hired for MI6 agents can actually stomach hearing the sort of things we see on the field.”

“Noted. I’ll be sure to schedule you with one whose constitution is sufficient.”

He looks Mallory in the eye. “You think being direct is enough to get me to do as you please?”

Mallory shrugged, the informal gesture looking out of place on him. “I doubt beating around the bush or being excessively coy about it would get much done.”

Well, Mallory’s succeeding in one thing: He hasn’t touched his drink since the conversation started.

“Alternatively,” He says, because he’s feeling contentious, “you could gather that I’ve had this conversation before in multiple ways with multiple people, and that as of yet, nothing’s really come of the efforts.”

“And you, perhaps, could gather that as someone who has experienced your particular brand of self-imposed hell before, I have a personal stake in making sure you don’t end up putting a gun to your head, literally or metaphorically.”

They’re both quiet for a moment. He looks down at his glass and that feeling in his stomach is worse, and he can’t tell if Mallory’s managed to get to him, or if he’s feeling a side-effect of drinking so soon after recovering from alcohol poisoning.

“Let’s be frank,” Mallory says, businesslike. “You feel like shit. I doubt you actually want to feel that way, so wouldn’t it just be better to bite the damn bullet and accept a bit of help?”

“What exactly do you term as ‘help’?”

“Rehab. Therapy. Though I suppose in most institutions nowadays the two are mutually exclusive.”

And really, he thinks he should feel bitterer about this. Mallory’s intent and methodology was clear from the get-go: Approach not as a superior, not as a distant employer, but as an equal who has some measure of understanding about how he felt, to put him at ease and not make him feel as though he were receiving an order, but a gentle push from a friend, someone who cared.

But he’s too tired to feel bitter, too exhausted to care that Mallory, blast him, knew exactly when and where and how to approach so as to best receive the desired results. Maybe it’s just easier to blame his compliance on Mallory’s manipulations rather than admit that he might actually want some help.

He stands up, and Mallory seems to take it as consent, standing as well. “Right, then. Why don’t you head back to Q’s, and I’ll start making arrangements.”

“Don’t suppose the little bugger tipped you off?”

“He did. I assumed you knew that.”

He rolls his eyes. “I did.” He slaps the money owed down on the counter and turns to go. Mallory’s hand clapping down on his shoulder, lightly, gives him pause.

“Thank you, Bond.”

He raises an eyebrow, turns to look at Mallory. “What for?”

“Agreeing.” The man hesitates, but then gives him a wry half-smirk. “You’re a good agent, James, and a better man than you give yourself credit for. And anyways, I always pictured you going out in a blaze of glory. It’d be a shame to lose you to anything less.”

It’s as honestly sentimental as a man such as Mallory can allow himself to be, and as much as he’d like to make a crack about the man getting soft in his old age, he leaves it at that.

 

[-5 ½-]

 

And later on, at Q’s, on the plane, in rehab, when those words are playing over and over again in his head ad nauseam, Bond knows that there are worst things he could be hearing about himself.

Much worse.

 


End file.
